Once Upon A Winter's Night
by the classicist
Summary: Belated entry for AndithFest 2018. A short and sweet Regency!AU. Lady Edith Crawley runs away from home in the middle of a snowstorm, after overhearing her parents' plan to marry her off to a neighbour. Crashing her phaeton into a handsome stranger on the way - and becoming stranded at a roadside inn with him - was most definitely not part of the plan...
1. Chapter 1

Dinner had been, for want of a less dramatic word, a disaster, thought Edith glumly. It was the first time Grandmama had dined with them since Sybil's wedding, and with both of her sisters absent from home with their respective husbands, she had been the sole focus of her grandmother's punishing wit and her deficiencies the sole topic of conversation. She had retired early, pleading a headache, although she did not think that anyone had believed her. Sleep had not come, however, and she had tiptoed downstairs to the library, hoping that a book might help to soothe her. Edith paused on the threshold, hidden behind the half-closed door as her mother's melodious voice met her ears.

"For once, I agree with your mother," Mama sighed heavily. "We _must_ do something about her, Robert."

"I agree, but what? She hasn't Mary's beauty, or Sybil's ease of manner." Papa sighed deeply. "We always knew it was going to be difficult to get Edith settled."

Edith gasped softly, hot tears starting to prick her eyes. She blinked furiously, forcing herself to attend to her mother's reply. "What about Sir Anthony Strallan? His wife died five years ago and there's no heir for Locksley still."

Her father made a muted sound of agreement and Edith choked down another noise of surprise. "He _is_ older, I suppose. He may be willing to overlook Edith's… oddities."

"Exactly," Mama replied with satisfaction. "It's time she had her own establishment, before she is quite on the shelf. I shall write to Mrs Chetwood. When we are next in Town…"

Edith could listen no longer; she closed her eyes, her throat suddenly possessed of such soreness that it was difficult to breathe. Turning away, salt stinging her eyes, she groped her way back to the hall. The tears had not yet begun to fall. That was good. If she were to run into one of the servants on her way back to the hall, she could easily feign the approach of a cold. She could not - _would_ not - cry, not in front of people. Edith was perfectly aware that she _looked_ fragile enough - so small, so soft, so young. Allowing people to confirm their impressions by such a shameful display of emotion would be unbearable. Instead, she ran, her slippered feet pattering like a mouse's along the hall, her mother's thoughtful plans for pushing her into the arms of this unknown ogre echoing in her ears as she made for her favoured childhood hiding place.

Fortunately, she managed to gain the peace and solitude of the folly, and the safe, all-encompassing arms of its ivy-trellised bower, before she lost _all_ composure. The icy fingers of the wind scratched her cheeks as the tears ran down them, and Edith briefly regretted her hasty exit from the house, which had not permitted of the obtaining of outdoor clothes. She curled up on the corner of the bench which afforded her the most privacy and the greatest amount of shelter from the thickening snow, drew her knees, covered in mauve silk, up to her soft, round chin, and _cried._

Some ladies, in the midst of fits of heightened emotion, are fortunate enough still to keep their good looks. They glow and look radiant and cause all gentlemen within a fifty mile radius to rush to their aid. Not so Lady Edith Crawley.

When smiling, on a sunny day, with a good following wind and a flattering gown, she might just have attained the epithet 'taking.' In unhappiness and a gown originally made for her much more striking older sister, she was fully aware that she looked frightful. At the present moment, however, she could not care less.

This part of the garden had become well known to her, during her two-and-twenty years of life. It had been her place of escape, when Mary had been cruel or Granny had been brutal, or Mama had been indifferent. Edith had always been, in the words of her grandmama, _difficult_ and _prone to unworthy emotions._ Awkward, she meant. Bookish. Possessed of a pervading sense of unease in company. And, most recently, highly reluctant to reply with quiet thanks and shy deference to all those people who had swarmed around her in the weeks since her younger sister's marriage, to reassure her that _one_ day, _surely_ , there would be a man _somewhere_ who would want poor, plain Edith for his wife.

It wasn't that she was jealous of Sybil, not at all. She loved her younger sister - who would not, when Sybil was so sweet and kind-hearted? - and her new brother-in-law, Captain Tom Branson of the 95th Rifles, was amusing and engaging and generous enough that, throughout his courtship with Sybil, he had not minded - had even occasionally seemed to welcome - the frequent presence of her sister as chaperone. If there were jealousy, however, then it was not born of any unkindness between she and Sybil. No, it was simply… Sybil was pretty, and Edith was not. Sybil had a husband who was affectionate and intelligent, whose eyes glowed whenever she was near, and Edith… Edith could not recall a time when any man had ever looked at her in that way. Sybil would know bliss and Edith knew that she would be forever alone.

And now, to have Mama and Papa plotting and scheming to marry her off - to get her off their hands as if she were something shameful, some sordid _inconvenience_ … Edith shuddered. It was more than she thought she could bear.

Shy by nature, Edith had always found books easier than people, and her reading - of poetry, of novels, of plays - had developed in her the spirit of a romantic. She had early come to the conclusion that, having very little to recommend her to members of the opposite sex, if she were ever to be married, it would likely be for convenience - the convenience of the House of Grantham and her future husband, that was. Her own wishes, she had reflected sadly, were unlikely to play any part in the making of such a match. Here lay the rub. Every fine feeling, every latent longing for love and tenderness rebelled against the prospect. Living her life alone would not be very comfortable, to be sure - a spinster was, and always would be, an object of pity and ridicule to the world at large - but even more uncomfortable was the prospect of being married off merely to satisfy some unknown man's need for heirs on the right side of the blanket.

That, it seemed, was her parents' plan. Edith scoffed to herself. Well, good luck to them! It would be a labour worthy of Hercules himself to find a man willing to marry Edith Crawley.

At that, Edith drew herself up sharply. Now _that_ smacked strongly of self-pity. There was, she had come to the conclusion, only one real solution to her difficulties. She was, after all, not without resource. Her father made her a good allowance each month and Edith, less extravagant than Mary and less charitable than Sybil, had saved a good deal of it. Certainly enough to get her away from Downton. She would go to London and throw herself on the mercies of her Aunt Rosamund.

The childless relict of a wealthy nabob, Aunt Rosamund lived a life of comfortable solitude on Curzon Street, and in her aunt, Edith had found something of a champion. If only she could make her way to London, then Edith thought she might be able to persuade her aunt to allow her to stay, as her companion, perhaps. If she were removed from Downton, then perhaps Mama and Papa might forget their plan of marrying her off. If she did not so often intrude upon their notice, perhaps in time they would come to see her as less of a blot upon the family name.

Edith sighed and lifted her head from her knees, roughly scrubbing at her cheeks to extirpate the tear tracks which lay there. Her decision made, she rose from her bench and prepared to return to the house, brushing the wrinkles out of her skirts and smoothing her unruly red-gold curls back into some semblance of order. A good cry had done her the world of good.

Now it was time to begin making plans.

* * *

Said plans found her, some five and twenty minutes later, in the stables. It still lacked some five minutes to nine and William, the junior groom, was still awake. "Ready the phaeton for me, please, William," Edith ordered, trying to keep her voice steady and calm. She did not generally give orders to the servants. Ordinarily, there would be nothing noteworthy in her ordering the phaeton. Tom's courtship with Sybil had been long indeed, and much of it conducted from Tom's own phaeton, where it had amused him to teach both of his gentle companions the rudiments of driving. Edith, to her own surprise as much as anyone else's, had proved a quick pupil, and she could handle the horses with skill and care.

William blanched. "The phaeton, m'lady? But the snow - "

"I shall be perfectly all right." Edith paused. "I wanted a short drive before retiring." It was such a patently ridiculous excuse that, inwardly, she cringed. Mary might have been able to carry it off, but not silly little Edith.

William hesitated and then straightened his shoulders. "I - I don't think his lordship would like the idea of it much, m'lady."

Edith bit her lip and then tipped her chin back in her best impression of Mary at her most imperious. "And _I_ should not like to have to report you to Carson for disobedience, William. I am ordering you to ready me the phaeton."

William hesitated a moment longer, but the threat of Carson's wrath seemed to work some magic charm over him. With no further complaint save a slight sigh, he turned to fulfil his young mistress's request.

* * *

And so Edith found herself on the road towards London. For fully half an hour, the phaeton bowled along quite merrily, Edith driving at a speed that would have induced Captain Branson, had he been present, to scold her most soundly for irresponsibility. Edith knew this, and could not bring herself to care. After the stifling atmosphere of the Abbey, and more particularly the unhappiness of that evening, it was nothing short of bliss to speed along the lanes, lantern swinging from its post, the horses' harnesses jingling with the motion of the vehicle.

She was driving so quickly that she did not see the curricle coming the other way, at a far more sedate pace, until it was far, _far_ too late.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Edith noticed upon opening her eyes was that she was not dead. The second was that she had not overturned the phaeton, which would almost have been worse. Instead, she had careered into the relative safety of a hedgerow. The lantern had fallen and smashed on the road and Edith had to blink several times before she could make out the other vehicle and its occupants.

They had been no less lucky than she, the driver having managed to rein in his horses at the side of the road. He was coming towards her now, a tall, lanky figure in a many-caped driving coat, and as he grew closer, Edith could also see that he was fair-haired and solidly middle-aged and _utterly furious._

"What in _God's_ name did you think you were doing, madam?" he snapped as he reached the phaeton. "You've the luck of the deuce, that you didn't overturn!"

It was a nice voice - commanding and, she thought, kind, when not raised in righteous ire against young ladies in phaetons. And he was _right_ , too, damn him. She shouldn't have been driving so fast, in such weather. The snow was so thick about them now that she could barely see two feet in front of her, and small puddles of snow had begun to gather in her lap and on her shoulders.

There was nothing for it but to say, most contritely, "You are quite right, sir. I was driving most recklessly. I - I am sorry to have - "

"Yes, well… you are unharmed, ma'am?" He was still frowning, but as he had interrupted her, his tone had softened.

Edith glanced down at herself. "Quite unharmed, I think - _tsst!_ " She had lifted her hand to brush a curl from her eyes, and her wrist had given a most painful twinge. "Oh, my w-wrist - "

Before she knew what he was about, the gentleman was carefully helping her down from the phaeton, and brushing up the sleeve of her pelisse to feel the bones. "Is - is it broken, do you suppose?" Edith asked.

The gentleman smiled thinly. "If it were, I think you would be making a deal more of a fuss about it. It is just a sprain, I think. But enough to prevent you from driving further this evening, at least."

Her dismay must have shown on her face, for the gentleman insisted, "This is no night for travelling, in any case. Where are you bound?"

"To Town," Edith whispered. "My aunt…"

"Good God, surely you did not think to drive through the night?" he exclaimed and Edith felt herself blushing somewhat sheepishly.

"I… did not precisely - that is to say, I - "

He lifted a thin eyebrow and offered her a crooked, knowing smile. "I see. Well, I think it would be a much better idea if you were to drive on with me to the _Green Dragon_. We were bound there in any case, and it is no more than half a mile or so out of your way."

"'We'?" Edith echoed faintly and her rescuer gestured behind him.

"Stewart - my valet," he explained.

"Oh. But… my reputation…" She trailed off. Running away from home in the middle of the night was not likely to have done her reputation any good in any case.

Her rescuer drew himself up to his not inconsiderable height. "I assure you, madam, I am not in the habit of ravishing defenceless maidens on freezing roads in the middle of the night!" He sounded rather hurt at the implication and Edith eagerly stretched out a hand to reassure him.

"Oh, no! Pray do not think that I - I was casting any aspersions…" She sighed. "I do not suppose that I have much choice. I shall follow behind you." A little reluctantly, she turned back to her own vehicle. The horses looked hale enough, but her wrist was beginning to ache most unpleasantly and she rather dreaded the prospect of driving, no matter how short a distance she might have to travel.

She was halted by a polite, yet firm hand on her arm. "Your horses will be quite safe with Stewart, I assure you. Please, allow me to drive you."

* * *

The short drive to the inn passed more pleasantly than Edith had been expecting. It was snowing much more heavily now, and he had swathed both their laps in a voluminous blanket that his man had produced. He was a far more skilful driver than she, at least - although at this moment, Edith reflected ruefully, that was not a feat that was difficult to achieve. It was enjoyable, though, to watch him handle his horses - and to do so _one-handed_ too! Not even Tom could do that, Edith pondered as they drove. It was beyond all things.

"Might one be permitted to enquire the purpose of your journey?" he asked kindly, once they were underway.

Edith avoided his fleeting gaze. "I - doubtless it will sound very childish, but I was… running away from home."

"Ah. A rather drastic step, ma'am."

Edith swallowed. "Yes. My - my parents are trying to arrange a match for me." She fell silent, unable to continue. Oh, if only she were not so painfully, _crushingly_ awkward! Now that she was driving along with this intelligent, confident gentleman, it all seemed so trivial and impossible to explain.

"And… you did not take to the gentleman?" he asked.

Edith shook her head, biting her lip. "I - we are not acquainted. He is an awful old widower called Anthony Strallan, who wants a wife to give him an _heir_. And I _won't_ be sold off to a man of whom I know nothing and - " She broke off, breathing heavily in her distress, and finished, more quietly, "And so I ran away."

"I see." He sounded vaguely amused and Edith shot him an irritated glance.

"I am well aware, sir, that to a man such as yourself, it must seem that I am an hysterical young fool," Edith began, quite cross, "but - "

She was cut off by the slowing of the curricle as it entered the inn-yard. Her rescuer handed her down with punctilious politeness. "On the contrary, ma'am. I understand very well what it is, to have your relations only too eager to get one riveted." He looked past her. "Ah, here is Stewart now. Perhaps you would like to speak to the grooms about your horses while I find us rooms."

As he turned away, Edith suddenly caught at his sleeve; he looked down at her with a querying expression on his face and she blushed, looking down at their feet. "I - my reputation… can you not think of some - some story to…"

"Of course," Anthony nodded. "Doubtless, an idea will present itself, my lady."

* * *

Ten minutes later, they found themselves being ushered into the inn's parlour and served glasses of mulled wine - "to warm you and your ward through, sir!" - while they awaited their rooms. Now that he was in full light, Edith could see her companion rather better. He had arresting, intelligent blue eyes and when he took off his driving cape, she realised that the reason he had been driving one-handed was because his right arm was bound up in a sling. It only served to make him look more distinguished. As the thought crossed her mind, it brought another hard on its heels: "Oh! I do not even know your name!" She dropped a creditable curtsey. "I am Lady Edith Crawley."

Her rescuer bowed over her proffered hand, his lips just brushing her gloved fingertips in a way that made her shiver with sudden warmth. When he looked up into her eyes, he was smiling somewhat sheepishly. "Sir Anthony Strallan - your servant, madam. I trust you will forgive me if I do not propose immediately?"


	3. Chapter 3

_Oh, she was the unluckiest, clumsiest creature in Creation! Only the greenest of green girls could have been so utterly stupid!_

Such thoughts - and others like them - had been marching round and round her head since she had fled up the stairs in the wake of the innkeeper's wife, some two hours ago. Doubtless, he - Sir Anthony - would be heartily offended by what she had said of him, in her ignorance, and there would be no going back. And, which made it worse, he had been so _kind_ to her, before then, so thoughtful and sympathetic.

She supposed she ought to be grateful that after this, she would have no cause to see him again. Her flight from home would completely ruin any plans her parents had for a match between them, and she did not think that he looked like a gentleman who would be too enamoured of London pursuits. Tomorrow, she would find him and beg his pardon and bid him farewell.

And _that_ , Edith thought with determination, would be _that_.

* * *

Anthony Strallan sipped his coffee through pursed lips and cast another look at the parlour door - his tenth in half as many minutes. He had awoken to a blanket of muffling white outside his windows, and the rather distressing tidings (brought by Stewart) that the road were impassable in either direction. He had rather intended to be gone before his fair companion had arisen, hoping to spare her any embarrassment she might have felt after last night.

For the dozenth time, Anthony cursed himself. He had been jesting, hoping that an attempt at humour would reassure her, would diffuse the awkwardness she had clearly been feeling after their official introductions had been made. But as usual, he had fallen, metaphorically at least, flat on his face. _You always were a clunch_ , he tutted in disgust. And now they would be stuck together for as long as it took for this deuced snow to melt and -

The somewhat apprehensive creak of the parlour door made him leap to his feet and turn, quickly smoothing down his coat. Lady Edith stood shyly on the threshold, a faint blush of embarrassment tinting her pale cheeks. But before he could speak, she had shut the door behind her, come frankly forward and said, in somewhat shaky, but perfectly clear tones, "I must beg your pardon most heartily, sir. I was offensive and brutal and - and thoroughly, thoroughly _bird-witted_."

 _Lord_ , thought Anthony admiringly, _but she's neck-or-nothing! She had no reason to believe that I wouldn't be furious with her, and she still came in directly to apologise._

He smiled at her reassuringly. "Come, come, my dear - no need to look so Friday-faced. You weren't to know. Doubtless if I had introduced myself like a gentleman at the beginning, you wouldn't have said anything of the sort to me."

Lady Edith let out a shaky, relieved breath. "No. I wouldn't have, I promise."

"And besides," Anthony added, " _I_ should apologise for that foolish jest I made. I've no intention of - well, you know."

The last remaining bits of tension seemed to leak out of her then and she gave him a proper smile. "I feel so awful," she confessed, "after you were so kind to me, with my wrist and - "

"Ah, yes. How is it this morning? Not paining you, I hope?"

She shook her head, looking much more the thing, and lifted it for his inspection. "The landlord's wife bound it up for me and I think it will do quite well." She glanced out of the window. "Have you heard that we are snowed in?"

"I had indeed." Anthony smiled and pulled out a chair at the table for her. "And that being the case - would my lady care to take some breakfast?"

Catching his mischievous tone, Edith grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling with fun. "Why, sir, you are _too_ kind. I should be delighted."

* * *

As they ate, slowly they discovered more about each other's lives. "It's all my sister, Diana's, fault," Anthony explained ruefulluy. "After Maude - my wife - died… nothing would do for her but that she should try to throw me into the path of every eligible woman of her acquaintance. Doubtless she has met your mama."

Edith smiled wryly. "Oh, I don't think that I can be considered _eligible_ , you know. A hoyden, perhaps, but not eligible." She sighed. " _That_ is the trouble, you see. I am… not the sort of woman gentlemen wish to marry."

"Hence your flight to London?" Anthony asked kindly.

Edith nodded miserably. "I thought that if - if I were away from home, then Mama and Papa would… forget about me, about trying to find me a husband. My aunt is a kind woman - I do not think she will mind letting me stay with her, at least for a little while." Her voice grew quieter, more faltering. "I hope she will not mind."

"I am sure she will not," he reassured her in a voice of forced jollity. "I am sure that your family will simply be glad to know that you are safe and well."

Edith looked up at him, big brown eyes filled with bleak hopelessness. "I believe," she managed, in a stiff, restrained sort of voice, "that my running away will rather be something of a relief for them. I have not been the easiest of daughters. I would that I were, but I am not."

Anthony swallowed the morsel of bread he had been chewing - with difficulty, owing to the sudden lump in his throat. He felt a sudden swell of tenderness towards this poor lovely girl, who had felt so unwanted and desperate that she had run away from her home and family, and who even at this moment looked on the verge of tears. He knew not what to say. Neither of the women with whom he had spent considerable amounts of his time in adulthood were or had been like this: his sister Diana had that same irrepressible cheerfulness possessed by their late mother, and Maude… Anthony smiled a little wistfully. Maude had been so wonderfully _hardy_ , so optimistic and sturdy. Comforting weeping women was something utterly beyond his wisdom.

"I have often observed," he offered quietly, "that people tend to be far happier once they cease trying to force themselves into a mould they are not meant to fit." He gave her one of his crooked half-smiles. "Your parents may want an easy daughter - but I do not believe that it is in your character to be dutifully compliant. Perhaps you should simply stop trying to be so."

Edith looked up at him, blinking in startlement. "You… are a very odd gentleman, sir," she told him thoughtfully. "I have never heard anyone speak as you do." Truly, that was so - there was no one of her acquaintance who so much as _listened_ to what she said, let alone replied thoughtfully instead of simply offering meaningless platitudes.

"Then we are well-matched, are we not, ma'am?" he rejoined. "Now, let us think of how we are to amuse ourselves, hmm?"

* * *

Edith could not remember when she had spent a happier day. Anthony had found a battered chessboard and collection of chessmen from somewhere and set it up on the parlour table, and they had played goodness only knew how many games. As they played, they talked and laughed and teased, and grew quite thoroughly re;axed in each other's company. _So this is the 'awful old widower', is it?_ Edith thought as she toyed with a knight she had won from Anthony. His head was bent over the board in concentration, considering his next move, but sensing her scrutiny, he looked up, meeting her brown eyes with his own startling blue ones. Edith looked away, suddenly feeling hot and cold and trembly all over. He wasn't old or awful at all. Far from it.

The inn was deserted save themselves and the landlord and his wife, and in the absence of society's disapproving gaze, Anthony saw Edith blossom. When she was not focused on her own supposed inadequacies, Edith was amusing and quick-witted and well-read. When she made a joke, she could not keep a straight face, but would nibble on her bottom lip in a vain attempt to keep a smile from breaking out. When she was conversing passionately, about a book or a person or a piece of music or a place she had visited, her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashed and she would wave her hands and nod her head in enthusiasm, making those shining red-gold curls dance with exuberance.

She was adorable and he did not mind in the least admitting to himself that, as far as Edith Crawley was concerned, he was a lost man.

"How did you hurt your arm?" Edith blurted out suddenly. And in the next second her face had flamed crimson. "Forgive me," she managed at last. "I should not have asked."

Anthony smiled gently. "Oh, there's no great secret to it. A shooting accident, three years ago." His smile grew lop-sided. "You see, nothing terribly heroic or scandalous about it."

"Does it hurt you?" Edith murmured, her voice soft.

Anthony shook his head. "No. It's a damned nuisance, that's all." His lips twitched. "Now, are you not glad that we shall not be married? You shan't have to be bothered by this, at least."

"No," Edith whispered, and Anthony was absurdly delighted by the faint wistfulness in her voice. _Perhaps…_ But no. She was a sweet slip of a thing - no older than five and twenty, surely! - and he was a crippled old cove on the threshold of fifty. That was no future for any girl, and certainly not one as lovely as Lady Edith Crawley. No, he would enjoy her company for as long as they were stranded here, and perhaps see her safely to Town, and then politely but firmly refuse any invitations issuing from the environs of Downton Abbey.

* * *

That evening, they ate a hearty, convivial supper in the parlour, waited on by the landlord himself, and then retired to comfortable armchairs. "This has been such a delightful day," Edith confessed, stretching her stockinged toes out from beneath the hem of her dress to warm them further. "I don't think I have ever felt so completely… _comfortable_ with another person before." She looked up at him, a trifle anxiously. "Is that an odd thing to say?"

Anthony sketched her a brief bow from his chair. "On the contrary, my lady, I am most flattered."

Edith was staring into the flames thoughtfully, and when she spoke next, it was almost as if she had forgotten his presence entirely. "I do not think I should mind being married so very much, if I could be sure that it would be like this."

Anthony swallowed. _What had her mother been about, to let her grow up so untutored that she would say things like that to gentlemen she barely knew!_ Oh, she would get herself into scrapes a-plenty if someone did not keep a sharp look-out for her. "It can be," he managed at last. "I am sure that for you, it _shall_ be. You must just… find the right person."

Edith looked suddenly, sharply at him, seeming momentarily to be much older than her years. "Your wife, sir… was she the right person for you, do you suppose?"

He ducked his head, smiling shyly. "Yes. I believe she was, ma'am."

Edith returned his smile, a little sadly. "Then… you were most fortunate, Sir Anthony." There was a moment of aching, precipitous silence - and then Edith gave a jaw-cracking yawn.

Anthony tutted. "I am keeping you up." Edith opened her mouth to protest, but Anthony interrupted. "Get you to bed, child," he ordered kindly and Edith sighed.

"I _am_ rather tired." She levered herself carefully out of the armchair, brushing down her gown, and Anthony rose with her. "Good night, Sir Anthony."

"Goodnight, my lady. Sleep soundly." _Sweet dreams, my lovely girl._

* * *

"Well," said Edith over breakfast, "what shall we find to occupy ourselves today?"

Anthony leant back in his chair and watched her, amused, over the rim of his coffee cup. He was surprised that someone as youthful and obviously energetic as Edith had not yet grown bored with the paltry amusements available at their place of shelter, but he supposed that that was merely the novelty of it all. If she were forced to live like this all the year round - at Locksley, say - he was sure she would feel very differently.

 _And where the deuce did that idea come from?_ he wondered, trying not to allow his confusion to show on his face.

"I know," Edith continued, merrily unaware of his current train of thoughts, "I could sketch you." She twinkled at him. " _You_ could sketch _me._ Or - "

They were interrupted by a polite cough from Stewart. "Sir, my lady, I am informed by the landlord that the snow has melted sufficiently to allow safe passage," he announced.

Edith felt all at once as if she had been dealt a sound blow to the stomach. Somehow, she had tricked herself into believing that this temporary little bubble of warm contentment and companionship would last forever. And now… well, now it had burst. She looked up at Anthony and, just for a fraction of a second, thought he wore an expression as stricken as her own must be.

Carefully, she rose to her feet. "In that case, Sir Anthony," she forced out. "I ought to be driving on. Th-thank you for… for everything." Dropping him a slight curtsey, she blundered towards the door. "I shall go and see about my horses." She would not _cry._ She _would not_ cry!

"Lady Edith!" His voice stopped her, her hand on the door-latch.

She whirled around, hoping she did not look too eager. "S-sir Anthony?"

"Stewart and I… would be honoured to escort you safely to London," Anthony offered. He half-shrugged, a most inelegant gesture. "If - if you could bear our company?"

"Oh, y-yes," Edith managed, trying not to shout her joy aloud. "That - that would be most kind of you, Sir Anthony."

They walked to the inn-yard together, so closely that their arms brushed once or twice. Stewart, busy checking both curricle and phaeton, noted that both his employer and the fair damsel they had rescued wore identical, slightly dazed smiles. Privately, Stewart allowed himself a brief moment of amusement.

Anthony paused at his horses' heads, under the pretence of examining their tack; tactfully, Stewart melted away. This sudden breaking-up of their little party had brought several things into sharper perspective for Anthony. Before, he had thought that he would be perfectly capable of giving up Edith's company when the time came - he had only been acquainted with the girl a day and a half, for God's sake! - but when the moment of parting had come, he had found himself unable to contemplate it. Unable to contemplate the thought of bidding goodbye to this vision of sweetness and never laying eyes on her again. He _had_ to speak.

"Lady Edith?" He could hear his voice trembling. "Please, do not feel beholden to me in any way - do not let it influence you in any respect but…" Anthony sighed and broke off. He was making a mull of it already.

"Sir Anthony?" Edith pressed gently. "Come, now, tell me - what is it? I believe we are well enough acquainted that we may speak frankly to each other, surely?"

He took her right hand in his own left and stood staring down at it for some moments, his thumb brushing absently over the backs of her knuckles. "Lady Edith, I hope very much that - that once we are in London, you will allow me to call on you. If I may be permitted that honour?"

"Sir Anthony, I - " She stopped, and reached up hesitantly to cup his cheek with her hand, a shy, sweet smile breaking out over her face. "Anthony, I would like that very, _very_ much."

His eyes widened in delight. "Edith - oh, my sweet one…" And casting a quick glance around the inn-yard to ensure their solitude, he dipped his head and quickly kissed her lips.

When they parted, Edith was flushed and glowing. "Then _that_ is settled." Impishly, she offered, "When we are in London, perhaps _I_ might drive _you?_ "

Anthony handed her up into his curricle, his heart as light as air. "On the contrary, madam," he began in tones of mock-severity, "I already have sufficient experience of your driving to last me _several_ lifetimes…!"


End file.
